Connections
by Sister-to-the-Queen
Summary: Just a short linking piece. Third story in Dark Trails 'verse.


_Hello again, everyone, and thank you for looking at this!_

_This story is the third part in the Dark Trails 'verse, after Dark Trails itself and Anno Domini. It's a short linking piece between the latter story and what comes after. Therefore, in order to understand what's happening, it is vital to have read at least the second story. Dark Trails should be avoided by those who aren't fond of gory horror, and stories two and three can also be read without it._

_As always, link to soundtrack on profile page._

_Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. No copyright infringement or personal profit was intended with the writing of this story._

_Warnings: absolutely none. Be afraid._

_Enjoy!_

_–––_

**_Connections_**

_–––_

She really was beautiful, Famine thought, as he looked at her from beside her, her red hair streaming in the wind like blood against the drifting snow.

Red blood, white snow.

He wondered what she'd do if he took her hand.

Pollution was a couple yards ahead of them, carelessly trailing his fingers over the back of a bench as he passed it, leaving bright red streaks of rust.

White hands, red rust.

Both of those colors were fine on their own.

But...

Hadn't even Snowwhite with her red lips needed black to be complete?

...

Damn that demon, for making him _feel_ this way.

–––

From the corner of her eye, she saw Famine looking at her, but she didn't turn her head. It wouldn't help him, and it wouldn't help her.

It made her feel like she was being turned inside-out, sometimes. She wasn't, none of them were, meant to feel this way, or at all. That was it: or at all. But _she_ did, and _they_ did. War didn't know what had done it for them, but for her, it had been the angel.

He'd done something to her, just by being the way he was, set something loose inside her that shouldn't even have existed. Sometimes it made her want to break his jaw, but other times it made her want to...

No. No, her kind didn't do that. Her kind didn't touch, her kind didn't... hug.

She ignored the inexplicable slight pang the thought gave her, and then, immediately and illogically, wondered if she should take Famine's hand and clamped down on the idea at once. He wouldn't like it. Her kind. _Didn't._ Touch.

She set her teeth together and walked on a bit faster. Pollution was standing a little further on, waiting for them.

–––

Sometimes, when his mind drifted over to the topic, Pollution wondered why they had to make something so simple so complicated.

_He_ didn't, that was sure. Emotions were new and a bit strange, but Pollution rather liked them. 'Course, there weren't many things he took the trouble to actively _dis_like, but still. They were nice. Kind of warm, like the mild, soothing glow in the air after a nuclear explosion. Nice.

It was so easy to just accept them and let them wash over you. That's what _he_ did, and it went well for him.

War and Famine didn't see it that way, though. Pollution could see that well enough. A human child would have seen it. She was scared, terrified even, and angry about it, but that didn't mean she didn't want it, very badly, just like he did. He was only afraid to admit it, but that was just as bad. Just look at him, looking at her. It was as clear as acid.

A shame, really. They could just as well not be afraid, like last summer, when they'd helped save his life. Why not be that way all the time? They'd feel much better if they did. It might even make them happy.

And then he saw a frozen oil slick, and his train of thought derailed.

–––

Hidden where they couldn't see him, Pestilence watched the other three walk past, and the upsurge of hatred he felt for them all nearly choked him.

Look at them. _Look_ at them, just gallivanting around acting like there wasn't a cloud in the sky, not a thought in their heads about what they'd done to _him_, a few months ago. Traitors! Backstabbers! Turncoats! They'd had no right to treat him that way, none!

_Oh, really?_

Pestilence gnashed his teeth. It was that damnable voice in his head again, contradicting him as usual. 'Yes, really!' he thought back furiously. 'What they did was inexcusable!'

_Was it now? You were trying to kill their friend. They fought back to protect him. Sounds pretty excusable, if you ask me._

'Their friend? _Their friend?_ _I'm_ their friend, and for a lot longer than that pasty little drip has been!

_Oh, please. As I recall, you hardly ever even stooped to speaking to them. Lord-of-the-mountain complex, that's you. Don't even try to deny it: I know you better than you know yourself._

'They, they, they deserve it! War -' _Oh, she merits a name again, does she? What an honour._ '- joined forces with a human, a _human_, do you hear, to strike me down!' _And what a strike it was. But do you remember what the demon said that day, about human beings' sympathy for the underdog? Think about it, there's a clever man, and realise what it means. Go on._

Pestilence thought about it. Then...

"No," he whispered, as the clanging horror of the truth came home to him. "No, say it's not real! It can't be! Impossible! Can't be! Something like that can't happen! Right? _Right?_"

But the voice in his head was silent.

–––

Angels.

There were millions upon millions of angels in the Host, and that wasn't counting the ones who had fallen.

Death was an angel.

And Death was set apart.

The vast majority of angels lived in Heaven, and most of them never left it. They were immortal, and they never saw anything or anyone die. Human souls there, just like the ones in Hell, only passed through on their way to their next earthly life, so it was no wonder that the angels, like the demons, never spared a thought for who had sent in those souls. And even those angels and demons who had regular business on Earth, had hardly any time to think of such things. To them, Death hardly even existed.

This, Death supposed, was what humans called loneliness.

In all Death's centuries of existence, only one angel had ever said his name.

Only one human had ever not been afraid.

And only one... one... Being... had ever... had ever... held him.

Even now, after all those ages, Death could not bear to dwell on that too long, on the memory of the very first life he'd ever had to take, long before the first man walked, an exile, out of the Garden. Some things simply could not be faced.

And to think so many people believed Death could not feel.

Three creatures, no more.

But for Death, for the angel Azrael, it was enough.

–––

Sometimes, Crowley wondered what it was that he and Aziraphale shared.

Other times, like right now, he didn't bother.

Curled up on Aziraphale's lap, just like this, the angel sitting in a comfortable, worn-down old leather chair by the fire, slippered feet up on the fender, teakettle on the hob, and the cold _out_side, thankyouverymuch.

And the angel's soft, plump hand and lower arm around Crowley, keeping him gathered close to the warmth of the body underneath the dressing gown, while his other hand held open a book on his hip. Sometimes, Crowley would creep in between dressing gown and pyjamas, for the closeness of it, and the warmth, but right now, he was far too content to move.

When Aziraphale went upstairs to go to bed, he carried Crowley on his arm. When he lay down to sleep, he gave Crowley a kiss on the nose, and Crowley, in return, flicked his tongue against the angel's cheek. Aziraphale giggled, turned off the light, and held Crowley close, nestled against him in his arms.

Sometimes, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale knew... but then, he probably did... knew how good it was, to the point of aching, when they were near each other like this. He could feel Aziraphale's heartbeat, in the angel's throat and in his chest and echoed in his own.

It was so good to feel... to feel... feel so...

Crowley fell asleep.

–––

Sometimes, in the past, Aziraphale had wondered what happiness really was.

Nowadays, he knew.

Happiness was being with the person you held dearest in the world, warm, sheltered, and safe, protected from anything that could harm them or you, and to know that everyone else you cared about, wherever they were, were all right. _That_ was what happiness was.

Aziraphale looked down at the small, green, sleepy bundle of snake lying in the curve of his arm, curled up against his belly. He gently stroked his thumb over the snake's head, and got a tiny hiss in return. He smiled and blinked away tears.

Crowley, dear...

A while later, when he'd carried his friend upstairs, and had lain down with him in his arms, Aziraphale remembered that Crowley had told him, not too long ago, that he, Crowley, was afraid that if he turned into a snake too often, then he, Aziraphale, would end up hating it. Serpent-in-Eden associations, and all that. Aziraphale, genuinely furious, had told him that that was complete and utter nonsense and that he had better put the notion out of his head at once! Why, Crowley had asked, shocked by Aziraphale's reaction. Because, Aziraphale had answered softly, because whatever form you take, you're still the same to me.

And it was true.

Crowley had looked as though he wanted to cry.

"My demon," Aziraphale whispered, lightly kissed the sleeping snake, closed his eyes, and slept.

–––

Sometimes, more and more often, Adam wondered what was the missing thing that hurt him so deep.

It never rose up high in the daytime, when he had his friends and his parents and school and Tadfield. It was all right then, he could keep it down, pretend it wasn't there even, that everything was still the same as before, and then he could deal with it, really he could.

But...

But in the night, more and more often, it would come surging up and break the surface of his dreams, and then he'd wake up, eyes streaming with tears, roll over on his belly and cry till his pillow was soaked through. He couldn't stop himself: it was stronger than he was.

This night, the gnawing pain inside, the only pain the source of which he did not know and could not remember, and that no desire of his could give him a cure for if that cure did not first reach out from the other side, this night, that pain was worse than it had ever been before. Adam slipped out of bed, slid open the window, and took a deep breath of the icy night air as it cooled but could not chill the tears on his cheeks. He leaned out the window, looked up at the dark sky above and the countless shining stars, and fixed his eyes on the brightest one of them all. Then he sank on his knees and wept, shaking with quiet sobs that were threatening to tear him apart.

Where was the one thing he needed, needed so badly, that he could not know or find, much less reach out for and take? Where was the one thing he felt like he was dying for and could not have? Where was the one thing the missing of which was making him bleed out nearly every single night?

Where...

...was...

_...she?_

_–––_

Elsewhere, a young girl in her teens raised her tear-stained face to the cold, dark sky above, fixed her eyes on the brightest star of them all, smiled and whispered, "Soon."

Then she broke down again.

But it would be all right, she knew.

Soon...


End file.
